


Beautiful Things

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artists, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Thedas, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 03:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12719124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: For the prompt, "Zevran being ridiculously suave and flirty and Alistair blushing and falling over himself until Zevran realises he's making Alistair genuinely uncomfortable. (not unwelcome but Alistair just doesn't know how to handle it and is overwhelmed.) Zevran stops and reviews his behaviour and decides what he wants and then approaches Alistair again in a much more welcome and successful way."Plus art snobs.





	Beautiful Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katling/gifts).



Alistair would never admit it out loud, but he knows he's sulking. There's really no other word for it, even in the privacy of his own head. He's standing in this out-of-the-way corner of the crowded art gallery, untouched glass of champagne in hand, arms crossed over his chest as much as he can without spilling said glass of champagne, staring down at his feet, and counting the minutes until he can escape.

Yeah, it's definitely a sulk.

Twenty-three minutes to go, Alistair reminds himself. Just twenty-three more minutes. It's maybe too early to start counting down the _seconds_ , but he's made it more than halfway through the hour that he promised, and he can make it through the rest.

To his left, not nearly far enough away, Brosca laughs. It's that deep, heartfelt laugh that usually makes Alistair smile involuntarily, but right now, it just makes him want to snarl. Which is really unfair. It's definitely her fault that he's standing in this gallery surrounded by artwork so expensive he's afraid to even breathe, but he did agree to come tonight.

"Oh, come on." She'd batted her eyelashes at him, the effect spoiled by her grin. "We'll just go for an hour. We can drink expensive champagne and eat whatever it is rich people eat at these things and be all pretentious and shit."

And then she'd pulled out the big guns, giving him the sad puppy eyes as she said, "Besides, you know it will make Sten happy if we go."

"How can you tell, with him?" Alistair grumbled, but it was a token protest only.

Now he wishes he'd given more than a token.

Oh, the champagne is nice--even if Alistair knows he isn't refined enough to appreciate it fully--and the hors d'oeuvres are amazing--even if Alistair can only identify about one ingredient in ten--but he's never been all that good at being pretentious himself, and he definitely doesn't have the patience for other people who are. Since the gallery is wall-to-wall with pompous assholes looking down their noses at him and Brosca, his patience is about tapped out.

It wouldn't be so bad if Brosca was keeping him company, but she's not. They've been here exactly thirty-seven minutes, and she's been deep in conversation with some Antivan elf for twenty-eight of those. The kind of Antivan who fits right in with the champagne and the fancy hors d'oeuvres and the approving murmurs about chiaroscuro and asymmetrical balance. Even the tattoo on the Antivan's cheek is artistic, the curve of it accentuating his cheekbone without distracting from the rest of his face.

A face Alistair wouldn't mind looking at normally, if they were at a club or a friend's house or anywhere Alistair didn't feel so completely out of place. The Antivan--he told Brosca his name, what was it?-- _Zevran_ is everything Alistair isn't, from his charming smile to his ability to enthuse over isometric perspective. Alistair doesn't know what that is, but he's real sure it doesn't involve watching other people exercise.

To make it worse, Zevran is monopolizing the one person Alistair could commiserate with: Brosca. No matter that Brosca and Zevran are practically at Alistair's elbow, and that Zevran spends as much time trying to make eye contact with Alistair as he does Brosca; Alistair knows when he's a third wheel. No one as suave and confident as Zevran wants someone like Alistair around as anything other than a foil to make himself look good. None of which is making Alistair any less miserable.

"Shall I bring you something?" Zevran asks, a little louder than normal, and Alistair jumps, his startled gaze snapping up to meet Zevran's curious one.

The gallery is crowded--and Alistair can be happy for Sten even if he'd rather be somewhere else--and that's pushed both Brosca and Zevran well inside what would normally be Alistair's personal space. Which means that when Alistair looks up, Zevran is a lot closer than he expected, close enough to send an electric jolt down to his fingertips. Zevran's eyes are warm and smiling, crinkled at the corners, and Alistair is suddenly, intensely aware of their elbows bumping as Zevran raises his empty glass in a clear question.

"What?" is the best Alistair can manage, even as he cringes inside.

"Another drink?" Zevran asks patiently.

"No, I'm good." It comes out a little strangled, and Alistair takes a sip of his champagne to cover his confusion. By the time he lowers his glass, he and Brosca are alone in their corner again.

He rolls his shoulders, telling himself he's relieved, and peeks at his phone again. Eighteen minutes to go. Still too early to start a countdown.

"Having fun?" Brosca's grin is evil.

"Fuck you," Alistair says mildly, his own mouth turning up despite himself. "This was _not_ what I wanted to do tonight."

"Could be worse, though, right?" she says, and there's a hint-hint-nudge-nudge tone that confuses Alistair for a second.

Then the penny drops, along with his stomach. Right. Of course. "Yeah," he says, trying to sound cheerful rather than mournful. "He seems like a nice guy."

Her left eyebrow twitches. "Uh huh."

"You guys sure hit it off."

This time, it's more than her eyebrows that twitches, but Alistair has no idea what her expression means before she smooths it back out. "Uh huh."

She's trying to be nice, and he appreciates it, but...third wheel. Yeah. "You know what?" he says and knocks back the last of his champagne. "I think I'm going to call it a night."

"It's not even nine," she says, and her tone is no more readable than her face.

"I'm kinda tired." He shrugs. "Long day. I'll be fine tomorrow."

Now he can read her expression, but the sympathy just makes him uncomfortable, an unpleasant combination of annoyed and forlorn and stupid.

"An hour," she says, like he's somehow forgotten. "You promised you'd give Sten an hour."

"Look-"

"And I promised you we wouldn't stay longer." She bumps his shoulder lightly. "I didn't forget."

"It's fine." If he's lucky, he's doing a better job of convincing her than himself. "You're having fun, so why should you have to leave just because I'm bored?"

"Because you're my friend?" she asks dryly. "Or maybe because I promised?"

"Yeah but that was before..." He waves a hand vaguely in Zevran's direction. "And I'll be fine."

She bumps his shoulder again, much less gently. "Stop trying to be all noble. Fifteen more minutes, then we'll go. Cross my heart."

"I don't want to..." He trails off, unsure what the equivalent of cock-block is when talking to someone who doesn't have that particular set of equipment. "...get in your way."

"Trust me," she says, her face back to that weird expression he can't figure out, "you're not getting in my way."

"He seems like a nice guy." And he does. It's not Zevran's fault he knows more about this shit than Alistair. "And...uhhh...cute."

"Glad you think so," Brosca says, and Alistair would dearly love to know what her tone means. "But I'm good with leaving after an hour. Really really."

The twinge of guilt he's still feeling isn't enough to make him keep pushing. "You can pick the movie?" he offers, to make his conscience shut up.

Something about that makes Brosca choke on a laugh, but she doesn't share the joke. "I promise not to pick a horror movie. But!" she adds, before he can say anything. "But you have to make me a promise."

Wary, he says, "What kind of promise?"

"It's easy," she says, which isn't as reassuring as she probably means it to be. "We're going to be here another fourteen minutes. Promise me you'll try to enjoy it."

He makes a face, and she flicks a finger in his direction. "None of that. You like Sten's art, so don't let these assholes intimidate you. Just...look around. If someone talks to you, don't let them baffle you with bullshit."

"I feel like they're all laughing at me," he mutters.

"I don't know what to do with you." She puts an arm around his waist and leans into him to take the sting out of the words. The difference in their heights makes the gesture a little awkward, but he drapes his arm over her shoulders anyway. "Someone points a gun at you, and you don't even blink. Someone you'll never see again might possibly be laughing at you, and you hide."

Her tone is affectionate, and he knows perfectly well that she understands, so he limits his answer to an eye roll.

"But just for tonight," she says, "just for the next fourteen minutes, try not to care? I'm not saying go talk to one of the art critics, but if someone starts talking to you, don't assume they're laughing at you, okay?"

It's fourteen minutes. He can do pretty much anything for fourteen minutes, and since he's not one of those art critics, what are the chances someone's going to ask him for anything except maybe directions to the bathroom?

"Okay." He almost manages to sound enthusiastic.

She beams at him like it's her birthday and she just opened a box to find a set of car keys. "Fourteen minutes."

"Thirteen, now," he can't help but point out.

"Even easier!"

Then, to his surprise, she slides out from under his arm and walks away. Short as she is, it's easy for her to disappear, leaving him to stare after her feeling a little bit like she tricked him. But he did promise, so he sets his empty glass down on the little table, squares his shoulders, and looks for a path through the crowd.

Stepping away from his nice safe corner is like stepping off a cliff...

...if the cliff turned out to be three inches high. Absolutely nothing happens, except that a couple people shift to let him through, without breaking off their conversation for longer than it takes to make eye contact with him and exchange a silent "excuse me, no problem, thank you, you're welcome."

There's a vague current to the crowd, people trending generally in one direction, and Alistair lets it carry him along to the next painting. It happens to be one of his favorites, the ridges of the Frostbacks outlined against a brilliantly orange sunset. The lines are deceptively simple, half the painting nothing but black, and yet, Alistair has known Sten long enough to know how many hours must have gone into it.

He studies the painting for the hundredth time, secretly glad it hasn't sold yet. It's not something he can afford, but as long as it hasn't sold, he can admire it all he wants. Whoever the artist is, they know what they're doing. Not that Alistair would ever get a chance to tell them that: the painting is signed with a stylized line drawing of a crow, rather than a name. So whoever the artist is, they like their privacy.

To his right, Brosca laughs, and Alistair turns instinctively toward her, only to sigh when he finds her: she's over by the bar, talking to Zevran about something that has him smiling and shaking his head at the same time. Even from here, they look like they're plotting. Maybe exchanging phone numbers, or planning a date? The thought eases some of Alistair's guilt over stealing Brosca away from her fun.

It also stirs a bit of idle jealousy. Why is it so easy for everyone else to do this?

Watching the two of them, he lets himself imagine it's him over there talking to Zevran, making him smile like that, but it doesn't work. Zevran and Brosca make a good pair, confident in themselves the way Alistair can only wish that he was. He was tongue-tied just standing there while Zevran flirted with Brosca.

Across the gallery, Brosca thumps Zevran on the shoulder, which makes Alistair blink. It's more friendly than flirty, and not at all the kind of thing Alistair would dream of doing in that situation. Apparently it works for her, though, because Zevran smiles and nods agreement to whatever she's saying.

Alistair turns away before either of them notices him. He can be glad for Brosca and still be disappointed for himself without being a bad friend, right? And when did he start deluding himself enough to even be disappointed in the first place? Someone like Zevran wasn't going anywhere with someone like Alistair.

He takes a deep breath and looks around, trying to find a distraction from his own thoughts. If the alternative is standing here feeling sorry for himself, then listening to people toss around words he's never heard is now officially the lesser of two evils. Besides, he's only got--he checks his phone quickly--nine more minutes before he's done. Easy enough to drift a couple steps to the right and pretend he's part of a group listening to some guy blather about the nearest painting, a still life of a bowl overflowing with fruit.

The woman beside him nods, and Alistair is about to imitate her when a familiar voice says at his elbow, "Hello again."

Alistair twitches involuntarily, but he finds something approximating a smile and pastes it on before he looks at Zevran. "Hi."

Zevran's smile is more genuine, or at least, he fakes it better. Though maybe he isn't faking? He didn't have to come over here, after all.

The whole thing leaves Alistair confused enough that he just stands there, unable to think of anything to say.

Not a problem Zevran has, apparently. Just before the pause gets awkward, he says with sincere interest, "Is this one a favorite of yours, then?" A wave of his hand indicates the painting that's the subject of so much academic-sounding babble.

Right now, Alistair can't even remember which painting it is. This has to be his worst nightmare, because what is he supposed to say? He can't wax poetic about radial balance and subordination or whatever it is the guy a few feet away is expounding on. Based on the size of his audience, and the way they hang on his words, he must know what he's talking about, but Alistair can't match any of it.

"It's nice," is what falls out of his mouth. Unfortunately, the floor doesn't open up and swallow him immediately after, which is about the only thing that could salvage the situation.

"It is," Zevran agrees, as if Alistair's said something worth answering. He smiles, but it isn't the blinding smile he wore earlier, the one that left Alistair blinking and incoherent. Smiling like that, he looks approachable.

"I...um...I like the colors." For fuck's sake, could this get any worse?

And yet, Zevran is still smiling, unfazed. "I must agree. The shading, there around the bowl? Quite masterful. You feel as though you could reach out and pick it up, yes?"

Alistair nods, flexing his fingers involuntarily. "Yeah. It looks...real." How many minutes does he have left? It can't be too many, but he can't check his phone without being rude. The anxiety spikes, and he just starts babbling. "Really real, not like...I mean, sometimes I see these paintings, and it's more like...like it's too perfect, more perfect than it was even when it was brand new, and it's like a dream, right? It doesn't fit here, if you tried to touch it, you'd just wake up, but Sten...he paints stuff and it feels real."

Oh, Maker save him. How many more times can he say "real" and "like" before he dies of embarrassment?

Then he thinks he really might die, because the guy who'd been holding court has stopped talking and is now giving Alistair a condescending smile. "Well, actually," the guy begins.

And those are about the only words Alistair understands in the verbal tsunami that follows. Knowing that it's intended to drown him, that the guy is making him look like an idiot on purpose, is both humiliating and infuriating, and neither emotion does anything for his ability to form a coherent sentence. His only hope at this point is Brosca. It has to be almost time, right?

The guy pauses for breath, and Zevran slides smoothly into the gap with a murmured, "Interesting." For all that his voice is quiet, it stops the flood of words like someone turned off a tap, leaving Zevran free to pause thoughtfully before going on. "For myself, I find it more reminiscent of Bujete Pochesvides's work. Particularly her symphony in B minor, don't you think? It evokes such a sense of despair, that overwhelming futility of our brief lives."

He's still smiling, but it's different now. Sharper. Condescending and superior, exactly the look Alistair has been waiting to see turned his way, but aimed instead at someone Alistair would expect to respond in kind.

Not that Zevran gives him the chance. The flood of words is headed the other way now, Zevran going on at length, enthusiastically, throwing out more words Alistair doesn't know. About a painting of a bowl of fruit. A really nice painting of a bowl of fruit, but...still just a bowl of fruit. Alistair can't quite wrap his brain around it as a symbol of existential angst, which is about the only thing Zevran says that Alistair actually understands.

What he does understand just fine is the way the other guy deflates with every word. Punctured. As embarrassed as Alistair was a minute ago, and feeling twice as stupid.

It's pretty fucking satisfying.

There's a breathless pause when Zevran finally winds down, his sharp smile now as much satisfied as threatening. A part of Alistair is impressed by exactly how many different emotions Zevran can convey with one expression. The rest of him is watching in mingled awe and glee as the other guy stumbles through a response that even Alistair can tell is weak.

Zevran nods along for a couple sentences, wearing the expression of someone listening to a little kid explain the dream they had last night: amused and uncomprehending. Unlike Alistair, though, Zevran somehow makes it look like his lack of understanding is the other guy's fault.

"Yes, well," Zevran cuts in eventually, "very interesting." His tone makes the words both a lie and a dismissal. "Do enjoy the rest of the show."

There's more, some parting shot that's almost certainly brilliant, but Alistair loses track of it when Zevran's hand presses lightly on the small of his back, guiding him away at a leisurely stroll.

When they're out of earshot, Zevran drops his hand from Alistair's back and mutters something in Antivan. Those are words Alistair _does_ know--now that Zevran isn't touching him and he can think again--he just wouldn't have expected to hear them coming out of Zevran's mouth. The kind of words Alistair learned while drinking with Antivan soldiers don't really fit the image he was forming of Zevran. "Sophisticated" was at the top of the list of descriptions. Refined. Not at all the kind of person who would tell someone exactly where they could put which parts of their anatomy.

Zevran catches his expression and looks a little surprised himself. His next words are also in Antivan, and Alistair knows just enough to understand that Zevran is asking if he speaks the language.

"Nah," Alistair says. "Or...I guess I speak bar Antivan? I want a beer, what's your phone number, that kind of thing?"

He can't follow most of what Zevran says next, just that it's a question accompanied by a smirk. The only word Alistair knows is "joder," but that's enough to make him flush bright red.

Zevran's eyebrows arch in amusement. "Yes, I see that you do know all the most important words."

A joke, just a joke. Zevran is teasing him, not propositioning him. Which is really too bad, because he's starting to grow on Alistair. Not quite enough to make Alistair want to stick around for another hour, but Zevran's rescue deserves at least a few minutes of conversation.

So he texts Brosca a quick, _5 more mins_ , then grabs the first thing he can think to say. "You, um, really spent a lot of time looking at that painting, I guess."

"The bowl? Hardly, though it is quite lovely." Zevran gives him a look from the corner of one eye as they drift through the crowd, headed vaguely in the direction of the bar. "It was all entirely bullshit."

Alistair stops dead and turns to stare at him. "What?"

"Bullshit," Zevran says with relish. "I felt it an appropriate response for someone throwing out bullshit of his own."

"He was bullshitting?" Even as the words leave his mouth, Alistair wants to take them back. Way to make himself look even more ignorant.

"Oh yes." The smile Zevran gives him is just a smile, not edged with condescension. "So many people are intimidated by art. They feel they must analyze every brushstroke, and if they have not, or cannot, they hide that." He nods his head exaggeratedly, his smile turning fixed for a second as if he's listening to a particularly boring speech. "So they nod along and hope no one will know. They make an excellent audience for those with too much ego."

Alistair looks away, uncomfortably aware that he would have been one of those people. "Stupid, I guess."

"No," Zevran says. His hand on Alistair's arm encourages him to move again, rather than stand blocking half the aisle. "Not stupid, merely people. No one likes to be made a fool."

It doesn't escape Alistair's notice that Zevran's hand is still on his arm, even though Alistair has started moving again. Just a light touch, barely enough to feel it through his shirt, but it takes up three-quarters of his available brain power. He hums acknowledgement rather than try to think of something to say.

"And people like that," a wave of Zevran's hand indicates the bullshit artist behind them, "they make it worse." He smiles that sharp smile again. "If he wishes to raise himself up by making others think themselves foolish, then he should be prepared to pay in kind for it."

Alistair knows he needs to think of something to say, but Zevran's hand shifts, sliding a few inches so that it's now curled around his upper arm rather than just resting on it. "So what _do_ you think of that painting?" he asks, the only thing he can think of.

"I think it a lovely still life. Beautifully done, if not perhaps something that suits me."

When he stops there, Alistair dares to glance down at him. "That's it?"

"Did you wish to hear me analyze it?" Zevran asks, amused. "Certainly I could tell you about the history of the art form, its origins and evolution, its notable works and the masters who created them. But the rest?" He shrugs a shoulder. "I could just as well tell you that the smell of leather reminds me of Antiva City. A personal thing, not anything with meaning for you."

"Are you an art critic or something?"

"Merely an interested amateur." He looks sideways, meeting Alistair's gaze unexpectedly, and his smile is one Alistair hasn't seen before, small and private, his eyes half closed. "Let us say that I have an appreciation for beauty."

Alistair may not have a lot of experience, but he'd have to be stupid not to recognize that for what it is. Guilt hits him suddenly, and he pulls his arm out of Zevran's hand, a little more forcefully than he meant. "Um...Brosca..." he starts, then doesn’t know how to go on. It isn't as if Brosca is dating Zevran; Alistair would be absolutely clear where he stood if that was the case. But what's he supposed to do or say here? He doesn't want to get in Brosca's way, but it sounds silly even in his head to say that to someone who's barely gotten past the stage of exchanging phone numbers.

Zevran's lips press together briefly, the corners turning up like he's holding back a smile. "A lovely woman."

Before Alistair can sort himself out, Zevran adds, "But I think perhaps we might have had a small misunderstanding."

"Okay," Alistair says warily.

Zevran gestures him forward a few feet, into a corner between two partitions where they're mostly out of the way. It puts them a little closer together than Alistair is quite comfortable with, but Zevran doesn't try to touch him.

"When I see someone at a show such as this," Zevran says, looking thoughtfully at the painting behind Alistair, "I make, shall we say, certain assumptions. You Fereldans have a charming phrase about 'assume,' I believe."

"Ass out of you and me, yeah." Where the hell is this even going? And what does it have to do with either Alistair or Brosca?

"So when I strike up a conversation, I begin with certain topics. Much easier to talk of a shared interest, yes?"

"Ye-es?"

Zevran studies his face, lips pressed together in another suppressed smile. "Allow me to be blunt. I wished to speak with you, and I chose perhaps the wrong way to begin. Your friend was more talkative, and quite charming as well, and so I thought perhaps I might draw you out if I spoke with her a while."

It doesn't compute. "But I saw you talking. You and Brosca. By the bar."

The smile escapes Zevran's control. "Do you know what she said to me?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "She said that she had promised you that you could escape after an hour, and that I had only twelve minutes remaining."

Additional data, it turns out, isn't making the computation work any better.

"Why?" The question slips out before he can stop it.

"Because I like beautiful things." There's that smile again, his eyes half-lidded. If Alistair was slightly less confused, it would be hot. "And I hoped we might talk a while, to see if we had anything in common."

"I'm not-" -beautiful. He cuts himself off, too aware that it would sound like he's fishing for compliments. Now if only he could think of something to say instead.

Zevran's smile softens into something more appropriate for a public place. "So let us begin again, shall we?" He holds out his hand to Alistair and says politely, "Zevran Arainai."

Alistair takes his hand on autopilot. "Alistair Theirin." It isn't autopilot that has him lingering over the handshake, though. Zevran doesn't seem to mind.

By the time Zevran releases his hand, Alistair's entire body is tingling, which does exactly nothing for his ability to think.

Fortunately, Zevran throws him a line. "That...individual." He tilts his head in the direction they came, and after a second, Alistair realizes he's once again talking about the bullshitter. "Would you like to know his secret?"

"What secret?"

"How to sound so knowledgeable while knowing exactly nothing. Because the trick is simple, almost entirely a matter of memorizing certain words." He leans in like he's about to impart a secret, and Alistair mirrors him without thinking. "Learn the names of certain styles of art. Impressionism. Modernism. Surrealism. Learn as many as you can."

He pauses, and Alistair nods to show he's listening.

"When you speak of art, fit them in however you like. You might also add 'post' to any of them. 'Neo' is excellent as well." Alistair starts to smile, and Zevran smiles back, warming to his subject. "Assign any word that comes to your mind, so long as the word is obscure. 'Verdant' is a lovely choice. 'Nice,' not nearly as good."

Alistair says the first word that comes to mind. "Fallacious?"

"Exactly! And so very apropos." Zevran beams at him. "But you must remember the most important part."

Another pause, and Alistair tries his best to look attentive, rather than like he's about to burst out laughing.

"You must be _confident_ ," Zevran says. "Every word that drops from your lips is perfect. You are the Voice of the Maker, and you should be treated as such. When a word escapes you, you look up, as if the Maker will provide it at any moment. And you look up in silence. Never 'um' or 'uh' or anything that sounds uncertain."

It's a little too close to home for Alistair to laugh, but he does grin. "Sounds like advice for how to bullshit about anything."

"Well of course," Zevran says. "Confidence is more persuasive than truth, sometimes."

Alistair has definitely seen that in action too many times. "Okay, but knowing how to pretend I know something isn't the same as actually knowing it. I mean, yeah, I've heard of Surrealism, and I know what surreal means, but I'm never going to be able to look at a painting and say," he raises his chin so he can look down his nose at Zevran, "'Why yes, such a perfect example of Surrealism.'"

"They are words like any other, not the secret code some would like you to believe them to be. Useful if you must describe a particular work to someone else who knows them, but if you are not in the business of making or selling art? Hardly as important as people make it out to be," Zevran says. "If a piece speaks to you, then it speaks to you. If it does not, then it does not. Knowing what name it goes by changes nothing."

That painting of the Frostbacks at sunset is across the aisle and a few feet down, and Alistair's eyes flick over to it briefly, automatically. Zevran follows the direction of his gaze, eyebrows rising in question as he looks back at Alistair.

"Does that one speak to you, then?" His tone is odd, and Alistair wonders with a sinking feeling if he's just proved that he's one of the unwashed masses, someone who doesn't know anything about "real" art.

"Um, yeah," he says, stalling for time to figure out if he's just stepped in it.

"And what does it say?"

That doesn't provide any clues, and worse, it's a question Alistair can't answer, not in words. Shit. "I don't know," he says. "It's like I could fall into it, or like it's dragging me in, or..." He smiles apologetically. Shrugs. "I don't know how to say it, I just can't walk by it without stopping."

"Ah," Zevran says. Whatever that means.

Alistair stuffs his hands in his pockets, ignoring the memory of Brosca making frustrated faces at him for doing exactly that. "Real eloquent, I know," he says, hoping to move the conversation along and get away from the strange, intent look Zevran is giving him. "I wasn't kidding, I really don't know anything about art."

"But you understand what I mean when I ask whether it speaks to you." That searching look is gone, replaced with satisfaction.

Relieved, Alistair lets his shoulders ease back down from his ears. "Yeah, a little bit."

"Good. Then whether you know Surrealism on sight is irrelevant." Zevran cocks his head to the side. "But if you wish to know a little, I can explain it."

Alistair's phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him into stepping back, away from Zevran. When he pulls the phone out out, he finds a message from Brosca, just a whole line of question marks, and Alistair realizes with another start that he's well past the five extra minutes he asked for. _15 more_ , he texts back, then adds, _unless you want to go???_

 _have fun!_ comes back almost immediately, and Alistair's ears heat up.

"Anyway," he says, looking back up at Zevran as he stuffs his phone into his pocket and tries to remember what they were talking about. A distracting voice in his brain wants him to step back to where he was, or maybe even farther into Zevran's space, but he's suddenly shy, uncertain again.

"Art," Zevran reminds him with a smile.

"Right! And, uh, sure. If you don't mind explaining stuff to an idiot."

"Uneducated," Zevran corrects. "An entirely curable condition."

His fingers rest lightly against the back of Alistair's arm, guiding him out of their little corner and down the aisle a few feet to one of the smaller paintings. "Now..."

###

It's surprisingly fun, way more fun than the art history class Alistair took in college and tried not to sleep through. That professor had reduced art down to dry dates and names. Zevran makes it live, his descriptions drawing connections between paintings rather than picking them apart until Alistair can't appreciate them anymore.

Though he isn't sure he'll remember much of it later, because Zevran's hand is so very _there_. Resting on the back of his arm, then curled around it again, then sliding gradually downward to rest in the crook of Alistair's elbow. The fabric of his shirt is just as thick at his elbow as it is anywhere else, but Alistair would swear it isn't there at all, that he can feel the smallest shift in Zevran's hand, the ridges on each fingertip, the crease at every knuckle.

Somewhere in there, Brosca gives him a parting salute from across the gallery, already wearing her coat and clearly on her way home. He ignores her smirk--and her thumbs-up--and just waves back with his free hand.

The crowd begins to thin, and when Alistair looks at his phone, he realizes it's twenty minutes past the official close of the show. Zevran's hand is very warm on his arm, Zevran himself close enough that their shoulders brush with every breath, and Alistair really _really_ doesn't want this evening to end. He can't very well wander around the gallery all night, though.

Zevran is clearly doing the same calculation, but apparently he gets a different answer than Alistair, because he smiles a little and looks up. Close as they are, Alistair would only have to lean down to kiss him.

"If you wish," Zevran says delicately, "I have a number of books on this very subject. We could discuss this more comfortably at my apartment?"

And for once-- _for once_ \--Alistair's brain produces a decent answer. "So you want to show me your etchings?"

Zevran throws back his head and laughs. "If you wish to see my etchings, certainly I will be more than happy to show them to you. But I will also be happy to show you a few books and discuss them with you over nothing more interesting than coffee."

"Coffee sounds good," Alistair says, because his brain has deserted him once again. Coffee is not at all the part of that he wanted to say yes to.

If Zevran is disappointed, it doesn't show in his smile. "Coffee it is, then!" His fingers tighten on Alistair's arm, drawing him toward the rack of coats that's now almost as empty as the gallery.

Alistair has to take his arm back to put on his coat, but as soon as they're both wrapped up, Zevran's hand is back again. The heavy wool of Alistair's coat and the leather of Zevran's glove do absolutely nothing to reduce Alistair's awareness of it.

The cold is a shock after the heat of the gallery, and they pause for a moment just outside the door. Alistair is absorbed in burrowing deeper in his coat, and he doesn't even realize Zevran has moved until they're face-to-face, Zevran's hand sliding under the collar of his coat to cup the back of his neck. The leather of his glove is cool at first, warming quickly against Alistair's skin, and then his lips are there, brushing against Alistair's, as light as his hand was the first time he touched Alistair's arm.

Startled, Alistair doesn't move at first, but when Zevran pulls away, Alistair chases his mouth, wanting it back, wanting the heat of it, the heat of Zevran's tongue against his, Zevran's body against his, and he hates his coat and his clothes and everything that's between his skin and Zevran's.

Zevran breaks the kiss eventually, resting his forehead on Alistair's chest. His voice is a little breathless as he asks, "Are you so sure about that coffee?"

"Fuck the coffee," Alistair says, more than a little breathless himself, and when Zevran laughs, Alistair kisses him again, harder this time.

They're both panting by the time they break apart, and this time, Zevran very deliberately steps away. He keeps his hand on Alistair's arm though, pulling him toward the nearest Metro stop as he says, "I admit, I was hoping I could persuade you to fuck something other than the coffee, but I would never dream of denying you such an opportunity."

"I could be persuaded," Alistair says, and Zevran gives him that smile again, the one that belongs in a bedroom and not in public.

###

The train is only half full, and Zevran snags them two seats side-by-side. He's good at idle conversation the way Alistair never has been, and he keeps up a steady patter as the train rolls from station to station.

Of course, Alistair can usually manage to at least participate in a conversation, even if he's never going to be the life of the party, but he can't concentrate on this one. Probably because Zevran's fingers are toying with the inside of his wrist, following the creases in the skin and the lines of the tendons until Alistair half wants to take his hand back just so he can stop sweating inside his coat. His shirt is starting to stick to his back, which is going to be obvious as soon as they get to Zevran's apartment. Not sexy. Not sexy at all.

He's glad for the coat for other reasons, though: the heavy wool provides excellent camouflage for his other reaction to those light touches. And so long as he's turned on, he doesn't have time to think too much about how little experience he has relative to Zevran. Because it seems a pretty safe bet that Zevran has at least twenty times as much experience as Alistair does, which is downright terrifying if Alistair stops to think about it.

At least the cold wind outside the station means he doesn't have to worry for long about being too hot. By the time they've walked the three blocks to Zevran's apartment, Alistair can hand over his coat with only a bit of embarrassment for the last traces of sweat plastering his shirt to his back. If Zevran stays in front, maybe he won't ever notice? As an added bonus, following behind Zevran into the living room gives Alistair the opportunity to watch his ass, and that's well worth watching.

If he was expecting Zevran to pounce on him the second they were inside--and okay, he was definitely hoping for it, even if he wasn't quite confident enough to _expect_ it--that expectation dies a quick death. Zevran pours them wine and drags out half a dozen heavy art books full of glossy photos and blocks of text thick with words like "achromatic" and "hierarchical scale" and "blind contour."

Zevran himself is just as entertaining as he was at the gallery, though, and Alistair finds it isn't that hard for him to move past that brief disappointment. It takes the pressure off, actually, and without an art gallery full of people to look down at him, he's more relaxed than he's been since Brosca said, "Hey, we should go to Sten's gallery opening." More relaxed than he's been in weeks, really; he's been too busy to take time for himself, and while flipping through art books with an Antivan he just met would have seemed like the complete opposite of fun six hours ago, he's enjoying the hell out of it now.

They kill a bottle of wine between them and spend more time looking at the pictures than wading through the text. Zevran sits close enough that they can look at the books together, his thigh pressed against Alistair's. Alistair never quite manages to forget about that, but after a while, it stops taking up ninety percent of his brain.

Until he looks up to ask Zevran a question at the same time as Zevran leans forward to empty the last of the wine bottle into his glass. All of a sudden, they're almost nose-to-nose, and Alistair thinks, _Fuck it_ , and kisses him.

Zevran takes the book away without breaking the kiss, dropping it on the coffee table with one hand while the other cups the back of Alistair's head. Their bodies touch in a dozen places, and every single one tries to be the center of Alistair's attention, all at the same time. Despite that, it's not enough: he wants to be touching everywhere possible, and sitting side-by-side on the sofa doesn't make it easy.

Of course, suggesting they move to the bedroom isn't exactly easy, either, so Alistair tries to sidle up to it. He pulls away from the kiss enough to say, "So I thought we were going to be looking at your etchings. Or whatever the kids call it these days."

As quick as that, Zevran is in his lap, a knee on either side of his hips. "My etchings, hm?" Both his hands are on Alistair's face now, pulling him in for another kiss. "I will be happy to show them to you, believe me."

"Then why have we been sitting on the couch?" Alistair asks. Then he realizes how that could sound and adds hastily, "I mean, I've had a great time, I just...if you want to, and I want to, why are we out here?"

"You seemed a bit uncertain," Zevran says. "And as I have already put my foot wrong with you once tonight by moving too quickly, I hoped to avoid doing it again."

"Oh." Alistair's face heats with embarrassment. "I just, um, don't really have a lot of experience. And I didn't know if that would bother you."

Zevran kisses him again, hard and deep, before he asks, "Do I seem bothered?"

"Yeah, not really," Alistair admits.

"Not at all," Zevran corrects. He rolls his hips, pressing his ass against Alistair's dick. "But unless you mean to carry me, you will need to let me stand."

Until that point, Alistair hadn't even realized he had two handfuls of Zevran's shirt. He lets go hastily, smoothing the fabric over Zevran's chest. An attempt Zevran cuts short by taking his wrist to lead him back to the bedroom.

They pass a closed bedroom door on their way to the master bedroom, but since Zevran hasn't said anything about a roommate, Alistair has more important things to worry about. His dick is just as hard as it was, but the put-up-or-shut-up moment is bearing down on him like a train, and being turned on isn't enough of a distraction anymore.

Sex has always been a little weird for Alistair. Fun, but also usually guaranteed to push every insecurity button he has. He got a later start than a lot of people and never really made up for lost time. His problem with casual sex is more practical than moral--he's complete shit at talking up strangers--but whatever the source of the problem, the result is that he has a lot less experience than he wishes he had.

Especially when faced with someone like Zevran, and for a minute, Alistair worries tonight will be even worse than usual. He's six inches taller and probably fifty pounds heavier, and Zevran is just so fucking _graceful_. Out in the field, Alistair can hold his own. In the bedroom, he can barely walk without tripping over his feet. He feels huge and awkward looming over Zevran, and his pounding heart is as much about anxiety as lust.

Then Zevran's mouth is back on his, and somewhere between the bedroom door and the bed itself, it becomes a dance. Zevran moves with him, and Alistair doesn't step on his feet or get tangled up in his own shirt or try to take off his pants without taking off his shoes first. It's like Zevran's confidence and grace are contagious, the best thing Alistair's ever caught from anyone. Even when they do get in each other's way briefly, both of them reaching for the other's belt at the same time, Zevran's laugh makes it a joke between the two of them, not Alistair messing things up again.

He's a little bit surprised to find himself naked on the bed without any serious mishaps. Zevran is straddling his waist, looking down at him with an expression of...well, with the same expression Alistair is directing back at him, excited anticipation tinged with wonder. Like he's thinking exactly what Alistair is thinking: "I have no idea how I ended up here, but thank fuck I did."

Alistair doesn't have any experience with being on the receiving end of that, so he reaches up to hook a hand around the back of Zevran's neck and pull him down for a kiss. Zevran gives an approving hum and goes along willingly.

It's not perfect, but Alistair didn't expect it to be and wouldn't have trusted it if it was. He'd rather have this than a perfect dream. Instead of perfect, it's easy, Zevran's laugh carrying them through the inevitable miscommunications and missteps. Easy, and also right, Zevran's skin under his hands and mouth, his own skin burning everywhere Zevran touches, and for once he isn't self-conscious about all the scars he's picked up over a decade as a soldier because Zevran has scars of his own.

It's not perfect, but it's _good_ , the way it's supposed to be, even when Alistair is hanging off the side of the bed trying to find where the cap to the lube ended up after it slipped out of his fingers. Behind him on the bed, Zevran is laughing, and he applauds when Alistair straightens with the cap clutched triumphantly in one hand. Zevran very nearly _is_ perfect, sprawled out carelessly, unashamed of his body, unafraid to reach for what he wants as if it would never occur to him to pretend he's not interested.

That Alistair is what he wants still makes no sense, but it's impossible to draw any other conclusion by the time Zevran is riding his dick, hands braced on Alistair's chest while his hips roll, dragging moans from both of them. The only problem is that he's moving so _slow_ , and the deliberate teasing is a little bit like torture. Alistair keeps a tight hold on the sheets, determined not to break first.

A wicked smile spreads across Zevran's face, and he says in a low, rough voice, "Jodeme."

Okay, so maybe control is overrated.

Control isn't a defining feature of the next few...minutes? Hours? Alistair isn't paying enough attention to notice, especially after he's flipped them over. He's too busy paying attention to Zevran: the thighs around his waist, the hand on the back of his head, the other hand with a firm grip on his ass. A little extra encouragement to match Zevran's increasingly breathless murmurs of _jodeme, jodeme, jodeme_.

Alistair tries to be careful at first, afraid of hurting Zevran, but that encouragement is pretty obvious even by Alistair's standards. The fingers gripping his ass pull him down faster and harder, until he's pounding Zevran into the mattress in time to a babble of Antivan mostly too rapid to follow. He catches "fuck me" and "yes", repeated over and over, and he loses himself in the rhythm until he catches another word he knows: his name.

Zevran gasps it out again, the sound sparking heat in Alistair's gut, sparks that catch and burn as Zevran says his name one last time, voice cracking as his whole body jerks, and Alistair gives up the last shred of his control.

###

They share the shower afterward and take way longer than necessary, even though the most risqué thing they do is kiss. A lot. And some more. Slowly. Repeatedly.

The hot water gives out eventually, and Alistair reluctantly steps out of the shower to accept the towel Zevran offers him. If they're done showering, then he has to figure out what happens next. Does he stay or go? If he stays, does he make sure to be out the door as fast as possible tomorrow morning so as not to get in Zevran's way? If he goes, is he allowed to ask for Zevran's number?

From the counter by the sink, Zevran coughs delicately, and Alistair shoves the towel off his head to look at him. At him, and at the toothbrush he's holding out, still in its packaging.

"You are, of course, under no obligation to stay," Zevran says, "but I would enjoy your company at breakfast tomorrow."

Alistair looks from his face to the toothbrush and back before he starts laughing helplessly. "Can you read my mind?"

"You do have a rather wonderfully expressive face."

"Ugh, yeah, sorry," Alistair says. "I always was shit at poker, never could..." He trails off as Zevran's fingers touch his lower lip, not quite shushing him but close.

"You have a wonderfully expressive face," Zevran repeats firmly, his eyes narrowing in an expression that dares Alistair to contradict him. "I...made a number of poor relationship choices when I was younger, and...well." He shrugs, and Alistair is struck by the realization that it's the first time he's heard Zevran sound uncertain about anything. "Let us simply say that I find I like knowing where I stand with someone."

"No games?" Alistair offers.

"Exactly so." Zevran leans up to kiss him. "No games."

###

Waking up alone in Zevran's bed the next morning, those are the first words that go through Alistair's head, but when he wanders sleepily out into the hallway, he finds the door to the other bedroom is now open. Not a bedroom, either: an art studio on par with Sten's. Inside, Zevran is sitting at an art desk, barefoot and shirtless, turned in profile to the doorway as he sketches on a pad of paper. He's concentrating fiercely, and Alistair takes the opportunity to study him.

With daylight pouring in through the windows, the scars Alistair noticed last night are more visible now, and he wonders for the first time what Zevran does for a living. He doesn't act like any soldier Alistair's ever met, but even without trying, Alistair can pick out a scar on Zevran's upper arm that looks very much like one Alistair has on his own leg, where a bullet grazed him in passing. Other scars look like old knife wounds, and no one gets scars like that from drawing or painting or whatever kind of art it is that Zevran makes.

"Good morning," Zevran says without looking up from whatever he's sketching. "I thought you might sleep a little longer, or I would have made coffee already. Give me a moment, and then we can discuss breakfast."

"What do you do?" Alistair asks, the words pulled out against his will. It's too early in the morning to wreck a good thing, and yet, here he is, trying to do exactly that. "For a living, I mean."

Zevran's hand stops moving, and his gaze drops to his own arm, to one of the scars that looks way too much like it came from a knife. "I have done a number of odd jobs over the years," he says, "but now? I paint."

"Just...paint?" Alistair can't hide the skepticism in his voice.

"Well, I might sketch from time to time, but generally only for myself." The corner of Zevran's mouth curls in a weird smile. "My poor choices when I was younger were not limited to relationships, but I was done with that a long time ago. I paint canvases now, nothing more."

Alistair doesn't have much he can say to that, his mind still busily cataloguing scars. To distract himself, he points with his chin at the sketch pad and asks, "What are you working on?"

Zevran gives him a wary look, and the hand not holding his pencil makes an aborted move to hide the paper. "A small sketch," he says, smoothing the page instead of turning it over.

"You don't have to show it to me," Alistair says hastily. "It's fine, I understand. Sten won't let anyone see _anything_ until it's framed and hanging on a wall."

The pencil taps once, sharply, against the paper. "I have no objection to showing it to you," Zevran says slowly, "so long as you understand that this is a...a private thing. Not something I would sell to a gallery, or even leave out where others might see it."

With a lead in like that, Alistair has to know. His brain is already working overtime on theories as he steps up beside Zevran and looks at the paper, only to find that every one of those theories was wrong.

It's him. Or rather, it's many of him: a dozen sketches are scattered across the page in various stages of completeness, from a rough sketch of him with his head bent over a large book--one of Zevran's art books, probably--to a painstakingly detailed drawing of his hand curled around a wineglass. Alistair recognizes the old burn scar across the knuckles and touches the too-smooth skin of the real scar without thinking.

Next to the sketch of his hand is one that makes him blush: he's on his back in that one, and even though the sketch stops at his waist, he's obviously naked, eyes closed and mouth open and hands twisting in the sheets. Less than twelve hours later, Alistair knows exactly what was happening in the moment Zevran has frozen on paper, can clearly remember Zevran kneeling above him, just beginning that first stroke to fuck himself on Alistair's dick.

There's a sketch of Alistair grinning like an idiot, lube cap clutched in his raised fist. A sketch of Alistair texting someone, frowning in concentration. Alistair with his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants while he stares down at his feet. Alistair sipping his wine, talking to Brosca, looking at a painting, eyeing someone sideways. Alistair with his mouth around Zevran's cock, eyelashes dark against his cheek. Alistair sprawled naked on the bed with his hard dick resting in the crease between hip and thigh. Alistair's face caught in a moment of intense concentration, the muscles in his bare chest straining to hold him up, and Alistair doesn't need to ask to know that was right at the end, Zevran bent nearly in half underneath him.

And Alistair asleep, his face pressed against what must be Zevran's hip and his arm slung across Zevran's legs. The sketch has every one of the sheet wrinkles and freckles on Alistair's skin, but it shows only enough detail of Zevran to provide context for the rest. If it wasn't for the curve of a tattoo disappearing under Alistair's cheek, it could be anyone's hip.

Every one of the drawings is definitely him, except not quite. It's him, but better. The way he wishes he looked, not the actual reflection of his face that he's seen in mirrors and photos. Is this really what Zevran sees, when he looks at Alistair?

Alistair looks from one sketch to the next, unsure exactly what he's feeling but very aware that his heart is thudding in his chest. This is more revealing than anything they did last night, more intimate than fucking Zevran or sleeping in his bed.

"My apologies if I've made you uncomfortable," Zevran says. He smiles self-deprecatingly. "I often sketch whatever is most on my mind, but I never intended for you to feel spied upon. I will throw them away if you-"

"No!" Alistair says, horrified. It's almost physically painful, the thought of Zevran tearing these up, though at least now he understands why Zevran was so quick to say these sketches were private, not something he would sell. "No, it's fine, please don't. I was just surprised, that's all. Nobody's ever drawn me before."

Zevran taps the pencil against his thigh, frowning at the sketches. "They are...not as good as I wish."

"You're kidding, right?" Alistair demands. "Why don't you sell these? I mean, not _these_ ," he adds hastily, "but other sketches."

"You flatter me," Zevran says. "I've always had more skill with paint than with pencil."

That pencil is tapping faster against his thigh, and Alistair eyes it warily. "Can I see some of your paintings?"

"Ah." Zevran looks faintly embarrassed. "I have a few unfinished ones I could show you, but...you saw one of mine last night."

"I did?" Alistair asks, looking up from the now furiously tapping pencil. "When? Which one?"

For an answer, Zevran sketches something in the top corner of the paper. It's just a few quick lines, suggestion rather than realistic representation. And what it suggests is a crow.

"Fuck," Alistair breathes, his stomach dropping. "That's yours? That...the Frostbacks?"

Zevran shrugs one shoulder and nods, looking more embarrassed by the second. "It seemed an awkward time to bring it up, when we were looking at it."

"You painted...and I just...I _babbled_ , and...oh, _fuck_." Alistair doesn't know if he's pissed or mortified. "Why did you let me look that _stupid_?"

"You looked no such thing," Zevran says, frowning.

"Okay, not stupid, then," Alistair says sarcastically. "How about 'inarticulate'?"

"Alistair." Zevran sets the pencil down and stands, reaching out to touch his face slowly enough that Alistair could step back if he wanted.

He does and he doesn't, and in the end, he holds his ground mostly because he can't make up his mind.

Zevran's hand settles on his cheek, so light it's barely there. "You looked at something of mine, and it spoke to you." He moves closer, his face intent, like he can will Alistair to understand. "If you cannot explain why it spoke to you, so what? You still heard it. You still felt it."

Alistair looks again at the sketches Zevran did this morning. At his own face: thoughtful, laughing, turned on, wary, intent. At the curve of his cheek pressed into Zevran's hip.

"I sounded like an _idiot_ ," he mutters, but most of his anger is gone.

"No," Zevran says, starting to smile again, his voice teasing as he asks, "Has there ever been an artist who wasn't secretly thrilled to know their art left someone speechless?"

That makes Alistair laugh a little, shaking his head. "Okay, true."

"We are all ego, you understand." Zevran's hand slides from Alistair's cheek to the back of his neck. "And we do so love to have our egos stroked."

"Your ego, huh?" Alistair asks, bending with the pressure of Zevran's hand until their mouths are almost touching.

"Among other things," Zevran allows. He stretches up for a kiss, lingering without trying to make it more, and adds very quietly against Alistair's mouth, "My apologies. I never intended to embarrass you, or to make it seem you were being mocked."

"Yeah, well." Alistair sighs and leans his forehead against Zevran's. "I might be a little oversensitive about that. Sorry."

"I know how these things go," Zevran says. "And I know how complicated it can be to unravel them, but...trust that I would never do that to you? Or at least, trust it as best you can."

Alistair doesn't need to look at the paper to remember the way it felt when he finally understood what he was looking at. Not when he understood the individual lines of each sketch; when they spoke to him.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think I can do that."

**Author's Note:**

> [Credit for help with art snobbery](http://www.oocities.org/hubert_dunby/snobbery.html)
> 
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> 
> [And credit for providing me with art terms, since I know nothing about it](https://quizlet.com/3088171/prebles-artforms-ch-1-13-flash-cards/)


End file.
